


Chasing the Dragon

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Gay Male Character, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Part Two of the Longings series.This is early days Sherlock, in America, still fighting his addictions and trying to find his path. Mrs. Hudson makes an appearance.





	

**Author's Note:**

> We have mention of addiction (and by extension, mentions of drug use, but very peripheral). I have never been addicted to anything besides book and coffee, so please forgive me if this doesn't ring true.

_South Beach_

_1999_

          With a groan that started at his (bare, bony and stubbornly white) toes, and traveled up the length of his lean, slightly emaciated frame, stopping to rumble in his chest before caroming up his long throat and finally emitting from his mouth with operatic fervor, Sherlock flounced on Martha Hudson’s flowered sofa and turned over to face the back.

          “Bored!”

          “Sherlock,” she tutted, stepping briskly into the condo living room in white capris and a flowered blouse, “the neighbors.”

          “Sod the neighbors.”

          “No thank you. Now here, sit up and drink your tea like a good boy.”

          “Don’t want my tea,” he groused, looking back over his shoulder. “It’s too hot here to drink tea.”

          “I could ice it for you, I suppose,” she offered, looking doubtful.

          “Ugh!”

          “Do stop whinging, there’s a good boy. Why don’t you come with me to bingo? You can deduce all the players and guess who’s going to win, you’ll like that.”

          Nostrils flared and icy blue eyes pinned her as he rolled over, practically bouncing on the cushions, “ _I don’t guess_.”

          Mrs. Hudson made a non-committal noise and he pouted. She ignored him and picked up her handbag, “Well try not to set fire to the building while I’m gone.”

          After she left, Sherlock slumped back on the sofa, inelegantly boneless now that there was no one to witness his dramatics. “I don’t guess,” he muttered, but it was half-hearted. He twitched and clenched his fists, fighting the restless feeling which was rising, threatening to swamp the fragile craft he was piloting through the sea of his addiction, perilously close to capsizing. Boredom was dangerous, boredom gave him time to think, time to obsess and for the craving to build. He’d been clean for almost six months, and it had felt like the longest time of his life. There was nothing to distract him, nothing to stimulate him. He was either going to snap and lose himself in drugs, or else sweat himself to death here in Florida and no one would mourn his loss.

          Well, perhaps Mrs. Hudson might. And Mummy and Father, he supposed.

          _And Mycroft,_ that inner voice whispered, the one that sounded like his seven year old self. “Shut up,” he snapped. Mycroft wouldn’t care if he set himself on fire in front of him. He’d probably be relieved to wash his hands of him, “Stupid fatty.”

          Now he was bored _and_ angry, and he rose from the sofa, disheveled in his dressing gown and pajama bottoms, as he looked around the condo for a distraction. Mrs. Hudson had forbidden him from burning down the building, but she hadn’t said he couldn’t play with fire as long as he was careful.

          Before he could dive into an experiment he was diverted by a knocking at the door. Normally he wouldn’t bother with answering the door—he left that to others—but he was bored. Stalking across the room (it didn’t take long, it wasn’t a very big room) he flung open the door and scowled imperiously at the person on the doorstep. “Yes?”

          The young man on the outside of the door never lost his smile; it was so wide, that had he been so inclined, Sherlock could have counted each one of his blindingly white teeth. They showed up brilliantly against his South Beach tan, and drew attention to his dimples. “Hi! I’m Heath, I’m staying next door?”

          Sherlock ignored the outthrust hand, with its perfectly manicured nails and fake Rolex. “Are you not sure?”

          Heath faltered slightly, “Um. I’m sorry…what?”

          “Are. You. Not. Sure? You asked if you were staying next door.”

          Heath blinked, blinked again, smiled wider, “Oh. Ha, ha. Yes, er, they said you were a bit of a stickler. I’m staying next door, I’m sure of that, ha, ha. Just pet sitting for my aunt while she’s on a cruise…anyway, I wanted to come introduce myself. There aren’t a lot of young people around here, and I thought maybe—“

          “Who?”

          “…what?”

          “Who said I was a “stickler”?”

          Heath rubbed the back of his neck and laughed again, “Oh, uh, ha, ha. Just, y’now, people, around…people around here. Um, so anyway, I thought maybe the two of us could hang out or something.”

          Hang out or something? Sherlock tested the words in his mind, as if Heath were speaking another language. He didn’t “hang out.”

          “There are a lot of great clubs around here.”

          “There are approximately fifteen nightclubs in a two mile radius of this complex, two of which have been under investigation for unsafe food handling practices, and four of which have been the sites of drug related deaths, one is a front for the Russian mob, and I won’t tell you about the human foot which was found in the ice machine at another. That leaves half, and statistically speaking, there won’t be that many which can be classified as “great.”” Sherlock let the air quotes hang for a moment then dropped his arms and started to swing the door closed.

          Holding out a staying hand, Heath leapt forward, “Wait! Sorry…I guess maybe you’re not a nightclub kinda guy. But we could always go for gelato or coffee. Perhaps a drink? There’s a gre—er, a good Cuban café where they make a mean Media Noche, if you're hungry. What do you say?”

          “I say goodbye,” Sherlock unceremoniously closed the door, and turned on one bare heel. Why did idiots always have to waste his time? He had cultivated a nasty demeanor to keep just such puling fools away from him, and here one came calling on his very doorstep. Well, Mrs. Hudson’s doorstep.

          Now, onto more interesting things…rubbing his hands together, Sherlock surveyed the flat, which was nauseatingly decorated in palm leaf print and wicker. What could he test with fire? It would be interesting to compare samples of the same materials here and in England, and see how the Florida humidity effected the burn time. He scowled blackly, as he swooped about the flat, snatching up items for his experiment; assuming he returned to England anytime soon. The last big blow up with Mycroft had been pretty spectacular; it might be some time before he returned. At least his allowance from Uncle Rudy hadn’t run out yet. Thankfully, living with Mrs. Hudson wasn’t terribly expensive, but of course he had to contribute to the kitty.

 

******

 

          “She’s awake now, Mr. Holmes, but don’t stay more than five minutes, she’s on a heavy dose of painkillers and she’s going to be sleepy.” The pretty blonde nurse smiled at the handsome young man in front of her, but he didn’t seem to notice, so she moved away with a sigh; probably gay, anyway.

          Mrs. Hudson’s hospital room was quiet, save for the soft sigh of the central air, and the faint rumble of traffic outside on the causeway. An unexpected pang of remorse caught him squarely in the chest when he saw her lying in the hospital bed, looking frail and elderly. That was wrong, Mrs. Hudson wasn’t elderly, she was, she was, she was Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson didn’t change. Ignoring his sense of guilt, he loomed over her bed and started talking right away, an old tactic from his childhood which had often served him well.

          “This hospital is adequately staffed, and your surgeon received his fellowship in orthopaedic surgery, so I’ve no doubt you’ll recover just fine. It really is too bad you came home when you did. Had you arrived a few minutes sooner or later, all this could have been avoided.” Sherlock shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and hunched his shoulders, because she still hadn’t looked at him. “If you listen to the physio therapist they assign you, you should be up and walking normally in short order. Your age is a factor, of course, but I predict normal recovery time. Really, it’s too bad you didn’t stay until the bingo was over.”

          Martha Hudson opened one eye and then the other and smiled at him sleepily, “It’s alright pet, I forgive you.”

          He let out a shaky breath but almost immediately scowled, “There’s nothing for which I need to be forgiven. You told me not to burn the building down and I didn’t. How was I to know the sprinkler system was faulty and would flood the place like that? It was pure happenstance that you came in and slipped when you did.”

          She reached for his hand, “Dear Sherlock. Do shut up. I’m high as a kite right now and I’m going to sleep any moment. Do you have somewhere dry to sleep tonight? Do you have enough money?”

          It must be the dry air of the hospital, or else some of the astringent sanitizing cleansers, but his eyes were burning. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes, “Yes, I have sufficient cash. I’ll go now and let you sleep. Good rest is proven to aid in healthy cell regeneration—“

          Mrs. Hudson snored softly, and he stopped talking. After peering at her to make sure she was truly sleeping, he stepped in close, leaned over the bed and placed a kiss on her cheek.

          Bloody hell, how was he going to survive in this city without distraction? The itch in his veins intensified, and he swore as he bolted from the hospital, spurning the lift and running down five flights of stairs.

 

******

 

          This time it was Heath who answered the door to find Sherlock on _his_ doorstep. But the arrogant young man who stood there was almost unrecognizable. Not because he had changed clothes (he had), nor because he was smiling slightly (he was). Heath realized after a moment that the gorgeous tall drink of water who had so rudely rebuffed him earlier that day was not only wearing tight trousers, an even tighter dress shirt and a smile, but that he was leaning on the door frame exuding availability. This was clarified when Sherlock leaned in, placed his heavenly lips on Heath’s jaw and murmured against his sun-kissed skin, “That offer of a drink still stand?” Without waiting for an answer he pushed the other man into the flat and kicked the door shut.

         


End file.
